


The Perfect Time (With You)

by mktellstales



Category: Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anal Sex, Blow Job, Dark(er) Sherlock, Freeform, M/M, Mentions of Violence, Slapping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-11
Updated: 2020-10-11
Packaged: 2021-03-07 23:08:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26955625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mktellstales/pseuds/mktellstales
Summary: Sherlock and Moriarty take a quick break beefier being extracted from a mission in Paris.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/Jim Moriarty
Comments: 4
Kudos: 37





	The Perfect Time (With You)

The motel wasn’t the worst they’d been in, but it wasn’t the worst either - that title belonged to a particularly lovely little gem Agent Lightwood chose from them in Budapest two years ago.

This one was dark; there was only one working light; a bare bulb hanging from an exposed wire in the center of the ceiling, and a bed that was really just a dilapidated mattress on a flatbed of old boards. Jim recalled how Sherlock once told him that he was sure Mycroft paid to have these places built and dismantled just to screw with him.

They had been running though, for blocks, meters; he wasn’t really sure, and the relative safety of the four walls, no matter how close to falling down they were, felt as reassuring as the sound of Sherlock’s laughter right against his ear, as Jim held his thin body close to his own.

"You are mad Jim, and you're covered in blood- Christ." Sherlock ran a long, winding finger down Jim's face, through a smattering of dark red blood.

Jim hadn't even noticed; he couldn't feel it cooling and drying over the adrenaline that was pumping through his veins. But,  _ it _ was painted over Jim like the last vestiges of a Jackson Pollack painting; across his forehead, up in his hair; down his cheek and his neck. It covered his lips, and was speckled over his eyelids.

"Your shirt too." Sherlock said, taking in the heavy saturation of Jim's black jumper. Sherlock lifted it away and off from his body.

There were wet stains that seeped in through the material, and a curious streak ran down the center of his chest, getting lost in the waistband of his trousers. "Oh. Looks like you were hit."

Jim looked down at himself, "just a graze."

He certainly had had worse.

Sherlock licked at the dribble, starting from Jim's belly button and worrying at the small scratch in his chest, and Jim did his best not to tremble just a little bit, which was much too difficult under the wet, velvet tongue of the dark haired man almost at his knees in front of him.

"Yours tastes much better than his." Sherlock said, running his thumb across Jim's bottom lip. He pushed down hard, wiping away some of the blood.

Jim's eyes fluttered at that.

Sherlock didn't need to say who  _ he  _ was; they both knew it was the red headed one who was to sweet to do what they did, and too scared to let Sherlock do to him what Moriarty waited for every mission.

"We've got at least an hour before your brother comes to extract us, or we're killed by angry Russians. You could taste the rest of me." Jim offered.

Sherlock quirked up the very corner of his mouth, and stalked closer to Jim, pushing his lean and hard body against his own. Jim knew, from previous encounters, that underneath Sherlock's black jumper, and that coat he insisted on wearing even in the middle of summer, that he was milky skin, and bones that stuck out at awkward angles, and sinewy muscle that Jim just wanted to chew through.

Sherlock smelled sweet like sweat, and the very air of Paris, itself. He also smelled a little bit like the baklava that had been baking in the oven of the restaurant they had just left four dead Russians on the floor of.

Sherlock pressed his lips against Jim's; chapped and cracked from his nervous picking, "ask me nicely, agent Foxglove."

"I don't do nice, agent Ash." Jim responded; their tongues tangling around his words.

"Give it a try." Sherlock drooped his eyes, letting them sparkle in the horribly dim light, and pouted his lip like a little boy, "for me." He said, and Jim laughed.

Sherlock pulled away from him, slipped his own shirt off from himself, and tossed it to the floor. Ah, there was that body; the beautiful lines, the expanse of gorgeous skin. Jim knew exactly what Sherlock was asking for. Sherlock didn't do nice either; and he knew the deep and dirty dark places that Jim kept inside himself.

Jim was hyper aware of the feeling of the bone of Sherlock's cheek cutting into the Palm of his hand as he slapped him with a  _ please  _ on his lips. He watched Sherlock's head snap to the side, watched the delay of shock and pain and pleasure dance over his lips, and he heard the crack, oh God, that glorious crack of skin against skin, against bone.

"Please what?" Sherlock asked, low and dark.

He slowly pulled his head back, so that he was facing Jim, and the welt left on his right cheek was beautiful, so beautiful that Jim thought he could use another.

The sound echoed through the small space, and hit his ear drums like the second dose of his favourite drug.

"Fuck me." Jim growled.

"That's better."

**~ * ~**

What they were doing could not be qualified as kissing. Yes, their lips were touching, and yes their tongues were pressing and flexing against each other. But, their teeth were also hitting teeth against teeth. Sherlock was exploring and tasting as Jim expected him to, pushing his tongue far down into his throat, licking at the walls of his mouth.

They were devouring one another.

They pulled each other down onto the floor on their knees; kissing. Jim clawed at Sherlock's back, trying to break into his skin, and keep it as his own.

Sherlock laid on his back, against the dirty, threadbare carpet underneath them. Jim stayed on his knees, looking down at the dark haired wild man; nude, lips swollen and throbbing, cheeks red and angry.

"Fuck, Sherlock; you are so God Damn sexy." He said.

And he absolutely was. No one; man or woman could look at Sherlock without wanting, needing to look at him again. Sherlock acted like he was above it all, like he didn't notice the stares and the whispers, but he did. Sherlock knew exactly what he did to people; he knew exactly what he did to Jim.

Jim Moriarty, who was always in control, who cared about no one and nothing, could be ripped at the seams by this man below him, and what worse, he actually wished him to; so long as he could rip Sherlock up in return.

"Come here." Sherlock whispered, and wrapped his fingers around Jim's wrist and pulled him down.

**~ * ~**

Jim gave his best estimation of a smile; his lips wrapped around Sherlock's cock, when he felt Sherlock's fingers brush into his hair and dig his fingernails into his scalp. He twisted his hand where it was fisted around the base, and swirled his tongue over the tip, and around the body. Sherlock's grip in his hair tightened, and he moaned.

Jim released his hand, and pressed them both against Sherlock's thighs, trying to hold him down against the floor, as he took his entire length into his mouth and bobbed, and sucked; spit and pre cum leaking out from the corner.

Sherlock was writhing underneath him, trying desperately to buck his hips and fuck into Jim's mouth. He moaned and yelled obscenities, and called out to God, though Jim was fairly certain there wasn't a Christian bone in Sherlock's body.

"Jim,  _ fuck _ \- stop. I don't want to cum like this."

Jim unceremoniously pulled his mouth off from Sherlock with a pop. "What did you have in mind then?"

**~ * ~**

Jim was not a man afraid of the idea of hell; in fact, he welcomed it the way most people welcomed the idea of Heaven at the end of their long lives, so the feeling of Sherlock inside of him could not be equated to the feeling of heavenly bliss, but rather to a fiery kind of writhing within the flames of hell.

Bent nearly in half over a table, Jim couldn’t see him, but he could  _ feel _ him, and that was all that he needed; to feel Sherlock’s thumbs press bruises into the hollow of his hips, feel Sherlock’s thighs hit against his arse. And Jim could hear him; strings of words like  _ whore, bitch, fuck _ ; words that Sherlock Holmes kept inside of himself, kept for only Jim to hear.

Jim held onto the edge of the table with ever whitening knuckles, his cock pressed into the other edge like a vice, every time Sherlock thrust forward; further and deeper inside of him. He yelled out his own collection of curses, because fuck; it was glorious.

It would have been embarrassing had it been with anyone else; with anyone else, Jim wouldn’t have even allowed it. Sherlock was the only one who could take him, who could own him the way that he did, because they both were stars; quickly collapsing into themselves; dying, and about to explode into a supernova, and consume the other.


End file.
